


Too Much Teeth

by ActiveAggression



Category: America's Suitehearts - Fall Out Boy (Music Video), Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: A Little Less Sixteen Candles A Little More "Touch Me" (Video), M/M, Misunderstandings, Pete dreams in music videos, Pete-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 14:40:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12843336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActiveAggression/pseuds/ActiveAggression
Summary: Patrick is stubborn, no matter what colour he is, and Pete has too much teeth.





	Too Much Teeth

There’s this preconceived notion people have that Pete’s out all night. This isn’t strictly true. He’s _up_ all night, for sure, but it’s only at around five in the morning that his brain decides he needs to take a long walk in the dark, cool air. So Pete’s usually out from five am till eight am, not all night. And there certainly isn’t the party scene going on that people expect. Instead it’s just him and his thoughts, all alone. There’s no drugs, no naked girls, no alcohol, no slow sweet kisses shared through the haze of intoxication.

There’s him and his thoughts and his dry eyes and untiring tiredness.

 

 

* * *

He is pretty tired when he gets back to the bus. He’s not sure he’s tired enough to sleep, but his brain is shut off enough that maybe he can get a few solid minutes of lying in a dark room and pretending.

He climbs up the stairs into the main living area and contemplates the blatant un-emptiness of the couch. He could clear off all the stuff and bury himself in it. But he’s pretty sure Andy’s got half his drum kit stacked up there and Andy’s touchy when it comes to his drums. He’s also pretty sure Joe’s laundry is piled on top of the cushions and while Joe isn’t touchy about his dirty socks, Pete’s not sure he wants to sleep on them.

“Pete?” Patrick asks when he’s been staring at the couch for too long.

Pete jumps, looking around wildly. He hadn’t even registered Patrick coming in. The doorway to the bunks is empty, and Patrick doesn’t seem to be anywhere else. Pete frowns.

“Pete?” Patrick asks again and a hand reaches out to touch his knee. Pete jumps at that, turns around and finds Patrick sitting between Andy’s drums and Joe’s socks. He looks concerned. Likely because he was sitting there the entire time and Pete didn’t even notice him.

“Shit you scared me,” Pete manages, heart beating far too fast for sleep to happen anymore.

Patrick’s hands fly up in a sort of incredulous ‘what the fuck?’ motion before flying back down as his laptop starts to tip off his knees. “You’ve been staring at me for five minutes,” Patrick hisses.

“I didn’t see you,” Pete informs him, “...what are you doing?”

Patrick gives him a withering look, which he probably deserves because it’s fairly obvious what Patrick’s doing. He’s got his laptop out, Pete’s scribbles from last night smoothed out over his thigh and he’s wearing huge boxy headphones. “Music stuff,” he deadpans.

Pete has to admire the dedication. It’s probably not even eight yet and here Patrick is doing his music thing. That being said, Pete’s pretty sure it’s more impressive how Patrick’s managed to wedge himself into the smallest cranny available within the pile of _stuff_. He’s being squished on both sides by drums and socks and shirts and books. Pete’s past pages of lyrics are lining the wall behind him, amongst posters and pizza coupons.

“You look like the trash lady from labyrinth,” Pete tells him. Patrick doesn’t really. He looks adorable. He’s in his pajamas, barefoot and yet still in a hat. A mug of coffee is steaming on the floor beside his feet and he has pillow creases up his cheek. Pete wants to climb into his lap and kiss him breathless. He never wanted to do that to the trash lady from The Labyrinth.

Patrick frowns and crumples Pete’s page of last night’s lyrics as he waves it at him. “Yeah, well this is fucking terrible.”

Pete shrugs. “Probably.” It was written at four am when everything had gotten too big and he’d climbed under Patrick’s bunk. He would be surprised if it wasn’t terrible.

Patrick eyes him unhappily. “Did you pull all my stuff out from under my bed last night?”

“Technically it was this morning,” he says and while Patrick’s in the middle of rolling his eyes, tries to climb onto the couch beside him. There’s no room and he can’t get it to work and Patrick’s yelling until he’s finally laughing.

Pete frowns up at him, but it’s fake and he’s so happy to be here, be leant up against Patrick’s leg because the couch wouldn’t take him but the floor would. Patrick slouches down a little to give him more laptop-less thigh to rest his cheek against and when Pete wraps his hand around Patrick’s bare ankle, he feels Patrick’s fingers ruffle through his hair.

“My head’s probably right by Joe’s dirty undies,” Pete says ruefully.

Patrick chuckles. “Actually that stuff is all mine.”

“Oh,” Pete says. Now that he thinks about it, there were definitely cardigans scattered over the couch. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Joe in a cardigan. “That’s okay then.”

Patrick laughs harder.

 

* * *

Pete retreats to his bunk a few nights later. He climbs in, swishes the curtain closed, pulls the blankets up to his chin, waits for sleep. Doesn’t just wait for sleep, wishes for it, wishes _desperately_ for it.

All that happens is he gets too hot. He can’t exactly leave now, not even ten minutes after climbing in, and he certainly doesn’t want to face Patrick and William. He can hear them chatting still, easily and far more fondly than Pete would like.

It’s not that he doesn’t want Patrick to have friends, he just doesn’t want Patrick to realise how shitty Pete is in comparison. If Patrick realises then maybe he won't want to see Pete at all. That would be bad for the band. It would be catastrophic for Pete’s mental health.

Patrick laughs, loud and delighted, from the other room. Pete pulls his pillow over his head to block it out. He doesn’t understand the sick feeling cloying through his throat, doesn’t understand why he feels _jealous._ But he does, and no matter how hard he presses the pillow down he can still hear Patrick’s laughter.

He sounds happy and Pete’s angry at himself for being so mad about it. As punishment he buries his face further into the pillow, insistent, until he passes out.

 

He wakes up to silence. The deep, unwavering silence of the night. It just figures he can’t even knock himself out right.

A couple of lyrics are swirling through his brain, not nearly as many as usual but he did just wake up. The rest will bombard him later. For now, he pulls out a sheaf of paper and, in his pitch black bunk, scribbles out a couple of sentences. They’re probably indecipherable - he doesn’t know. He can’t see them. It feels like they should be though, if only because he’s not sure he wants Patrick to read them.

Pete drops out of his bunk, makes his way over to Patrick’s to leave his sheet of hopefully unreadable sentences, and pauses. His fist crumples the paper into a ball.

Patrick’s light is still on.

Pete wiggles his phone out of his jeans. He hadn’t bothered to get changed before knocking himself out and his legs feel a little weird for it. His phone is set to the lowest possible brightness but still makes him squint.

3:07

Pete frowns. Patrick should definitely be asleep. He probably is. Probably fell asleep editing tracks together or trying to order Pete’s lyrics into something cohesive. Pete can’t help a fond smile from sneaking its way onto his face.

He pulls aside Patrick’s curtain, intent on switching out the light and maybe covering him with a blanket as he no doubt forgot that too. Patrick blinks at him, blinks at him again like he can’t believe Pete’s standing there and scrambles to pull his blankets up.

Pete kind of just stands there. He isn’t processing this very well, he knows, but it’s not every day you walk in on your bandmate jerking off at three am. That’s more of a fortnightly occurrence, and it’s usually _Joe._ Not _Patrick._

“What Pete?” Patrick asks. He’s looking kind of concerned now, probably thinks Pete wouldn’t still be standing here unless something truly awful had happened. If he could get his brain to work he wouldn’t be.

As it is, he continues to stand beside Patrick’s bunk and ever so slowly hands him the crumpled ball of paper with his words hidden inside.

Patrick takes it, brow furrowed, and uncurls the creases, smooths it out over his blanket covered thigh.

Pete looks at it at the same time Patrick leans in to do the same. The words are totally legible, and really kind of damning.

Patrick looks from them to Pete and back again. He opens his mouth to say something, closes it, opens it. “Pete,” he starts, then stops, and finally he shuffles over, towards the wall. Away from Pete.

Pete can feel himself frown, can’t help it.

“Pete,” Patrick repeats, but this time he follows it up with a quick hand motion. A little curl of his fingers towards himself; _come here_.

“Oh,” Pete mumbles, “yeah, okay.” He tries to restrain himself but fairly scrambles into Patrick’s bunk. It’s a tight squeeze but Patrick hardly ever offers to share his bed. Usually Pete has to crawl under it and pretend.

Patrick keeps rigidly to his side of the bed but does curl his fingers around Pete’s forearm, pale skin over dark tattoos.

“Who’s got you like this?” Patrick asks softly, waving the rumpled paper in the air with his free hand.

Pete looks at the paper, looks at Patrick, thinks _I don’t know, but I have this horrible feeling it’s you_ , and says, “it doesn’t matter.”

Patrick frowns. “Of course it matters.”

“Not right now,” Pete mutters.

Patrick grumbles but relents, sets the paper down on his blankets. He shifts and Pete just knows he’s gearing up to ask Pete if he wants to go back to his own bunk.

“If you kick me out, I’ll sleep under your bunk,” Pete says quickly.

Patrick sighs, sits back a little. “Can I at least get dressed?” he snarks, rolling his eyes.

Pete pauses thoughtfully. “No,” he finally says, “not if I have to leave.”

The curtain’s still open, Patrick’s light seeping into the narrow corridor between the bunks. It looks cold out there, and dark, and lonely. Patrick glances at the still silence. He probably doesn’t see it like Pete does. Pete sees an abyss and he fears if he steps into it he’ll be alone and Patrick’s presence won't just keep the dark at bay, it’ll keep Pete at bay too because him and the dark will be one and the same.

Patrick bites his lip but doesn’t tell Pete to leave. He reaches over him instead, yanking the curtain shut against the black.

“Sorry,” Pete says.

“For what?”

“I, well, I guess I interrupted?”

Patrick lets out a low laugh. “It’s okay Pete,” he says and Pete isn’t sure if he’s accepting Pete’s apology or is just being reassuring in general.

Either way, Pete shifts closer, curls an arm over Patrick’s middle.

Patrick makes a sound of protest, says “hey. I’m still naked, remember?”

Like Pete could _forget._

“Pinky promise not to molest you,” Pete offers and before Patrick can reply, reaches up and flicks off the light.

“... fine,” Patrick says to the warm darkness. He shuffles closer until his cheek presses softly to Pete’s forehead.

Pete feels his heart calm, his body slow into relaxation, and isn’t at all surprised when he’s lulled into sleep.

 

* * *

He dreams of Patrick, dressed in yellow and singing louder and louder as at first Andy then Joe slip away. Pete thinks he can see them curved around each other at the bottom of the hill, pressed together in a ditch, Joe’s hands tracing lines of tattoos.

Pete feels hollow and like his mouth is both too small and too wide. He thinks maybe Donnie and Shoe can feel the same hollowness and are kissing so desperately because if they do, it’ll go away. Then he thinks _Donnie?_ And _Shoe?_ And _what?_

He eyes Patrick, wondering if he could convince him that they too need to feel each other up in a ditch. He’s not sure Patrick would go for it.

He plays his bass harder in an effort to drive the hollow away and sees Patrick’s appreciative grin. It’s not much, but it makes him feel a little warmer.

The carousel spins on, faster and faster, and just when Pete’s starting to get dizzy and his fingers are faltering, Patrick steps up close to him. He grabs Pete’s collar, leans in fast, plants a rough, open-mouthed kiss to Pete’s jaw and whispers, “too much teeth, Sandman,” in Pete’s ear.

Pete thinks _Benzedrine_ and wakes up.

 

* * *

 

Patrick’s a cuddler _apparently_ , because Pete wakes up with warm limbs wrapped around him and Patrick’s mouth is pressed against his jaw, open, damp, in exactly the same place it had landed in Pete’s dream.

Pete thinks _huh_ because it’s kind of nifty how dreams can interpret and incorporate reality.

Pete thinks _awesome_ because dreams kind of really are awesome, and also because the overhanging cloud of depression that’s been following him around for the past week has lifted and he feels normal again. Normal-er.

Pete thinks _oh god_ because Patrick shifts closer, smooths his tongue over Pete’s jaw, presses his burning hard on against Pete’s thigh, and Pete is abruptly aware of his own similar state.

He wants to roll towards Patrick’s warmth, press their erections together and rut against Patrick until he can’t think anymore. But he thinks Patrick would let him, desperate, sleepy. And he knows Patrick would regret it.

Pete rolls the other way. He tries to anyway. He gets in a quarter turn, nowhere close to the bunk curtain, before Patrick’s arms tighten around him. Pete resists the pull, strains to keep himself still, clenches his fingers around the edge of the bunk.

Patrick makes a tiny unhappy sound behind him, stops trying to pull him back and instead pulls himself forward. He presses himself to Pete’s back, tangles their legs together.

His erection is no longer pressing tight against Pete’s thigh. Instead it’s hard against Pete’s ass, so hard that Pete doesn’t really understand until he glances back and sees Patrick’s kicked off the covers and _is completely naked, holy fuck._

Pete’s tiny girl jeans have never felt more constrictive.

There’s a press of hot dampness against the nape of Pete’s neck, Patrick mouthing along the exposed skin.

Pete has a moment where he really feels like he might cry, because he really _really_ wants this and he can’t.

Patrick’s mouth carries along its path, up into Pete’s hair. It’s a little weird then, Patrick mouthing at Pete’s unwashed hair, but he’s asleep still and it doesn’t seem to bother him.

Pete waits for a lull in movement, waits until Patrick’s pulled back just a little, and grabs Patrick’s hand.

“Patrick,” he says firmly. The hand in his grasp twitches - it had been on a warpath down to Pete’s cock and he can’t really believe he’s stopped it.

Patrick shows no other indication of hearing, or waking up. He sighs contently, grinds his hips hard against Pete. His hips are a little boney now that he’s lost weight, almost sharp against Pete’s skin.

“Patrick,” Pete repeats, a little more desperately, a touch hysterically. “Patrick, Patrick, ‘trick please. I’m trying so hard here but I can’t - I just - ‘trick. Stop.”

He feels Patrick regain consciousness, feels his lazy hip motions cease, feels Patrick freeze and pull back sharply.

“Pete,” he says, sounding bewildered.

“Patrick,” Pete says again, fingers tight around Patrick’s hand. He can’t fathom why he continues. He knows Patrick’s awake now. He knows it’s all over and yet, “stop. Please ‘trick stop.”

Maybe he’s too caught up. Too caught up in Patrick and his feelings and what could happen if Patrick found out. Maybe he needs Patrick to stop and back off before he cracks and turns around and Patrick _sees._

Whatever the reason, the words come out and Patrick pulls away so fast, he cracks his head into the van wall.

Pete thinks _he knows_ and feels miserable. He can’t bring himself to look at Patrick, doesn’t want to see the revulsion. Instead he pulls himself from the bunk, unreasonably shaky.

Patrick makes this wounded noise from behind him, says, “Pete. Jesus, I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

He’s probably still naked. Pete nods once and walks away. He doesn’t need Patrick’s pity.

 

 

“What’s wrong?” Andy asks the moment Pete comes in.

“Is it so obvious?” he wonders.

Andy shrugs. “You’ve been depressed for a while, but this seems different. You look kind of freaked out honestly.”

Pete isn’t really. He’s horrified he let Patrick see the feelings he’s been trying to pretend aren’t there. Patrick’s probably the one that’s freaked out.

“I’m fine,” he mutters.

Andy raises an eyebrow, looks unimpressed.

Pete thinks of his dream, thinks of Andy and Joe kissing in the ditch, blurts, “if you felt hollow, how would you fix it,” before he can stop himself.

Andy looks thoughtful. He probably thinks this has something to do with Pete’s mood. Pete’s pretty sure it doesn’t, until he remembers _too much teeth, Sandman_ and wonders whether that was Patrick telling him he’s not good enough, or is too much. Smiles too wide, tries too hard, has too much teeth.

“I’m not sure,” Andy says quietly, “probably try to make myself feel alive.”

Patrick thinks about Joe, dressed in far too much red, thinks about Andy pressed beneath him. They grappled and kissed and Pete thinks dream Andy had much the same idea as real Andy.

“How?” he asks.

Andy shrugs like he doesn’t know, but his eyes flick over to the bunks where Joe is undoubtedly still asleep.

Pete sighs. He doesn’t think his route away from the hollow feeling is going to be quite as easy. Patrick is stubborn, no matter what colour he is, and Pete has too much teeth.

 

 

* * *

 

Pete gathers his blanket and heads for Patrick’s bunk. He’s hoping they can put this morning behind them, forget about it. He’s hoping Patrick will act as if nothing happened. He’s hoping Patrick will let him sleep beside him, because otherwise he doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep. He really wants to sleep.

He knocks on the frame of the bunk this time. There’s a pause, long and stilted, and Patrick draws the curtain back.

“Pete,” he says tightly, and he’s not smiling, he’s not even pretending to be neutral. He looks pained, eyebrows drawn together, face ashen.

“I - can I sleep here?” Pete asks in a rush.

“...I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Patrick says, watching Pete like he’s worried. Like he thinks Pete’s about to go off the rails.

“Right,” Pete mutters, letting out a long breath, “of course. Sorry.” He turns on his heel, bundles his blankets higher in his arms, heads back to his own bunk.

He climbs in, spends an hour actively hating himself in the dark.

He’s fucked everything up. Patrick knows and it’s all Pete’s fault. He shouldn’t have shown that desperation. Maybe part of him had been hoping Patrick would reciprocate his feelings. That part of him was naive and stupid, so fucking stupid.

He climbs out of his bunk at 1 am, walks past Patrick’s bunk and sees the lack of light, thinks about Patrick’s presence keeping him at bay alongside the dark, just like he predicted. Thinks _too much teeth._

There’s a notepad on the table in the main living space. It’s half full of Pete’s words and Patrick’s chord progressions already. He picks it up, flips through until he finds the blank. He goes too far and pulls a couple pages back over, goes too far again and stares.

Words are written tightly over the small page, in Patrick’s neat, angry handwriting. Patrick hardly ever writes lyrics. Patrick _never_ writes lyrics like this.

Pete tears out the page, slips it into his pocket. He picks up a pen from the mug they have blue-tacked to the table and writes down his own words on a new page.

 

_Why-why-why won’t the world revolve around me?_

_Build my dreams._

 

He writes some more, perched in the cranny Patrick had been sat in those nights ago. None of it sticks as much as the _why-why-why_ does. Even that doesn’t stick as much as the _too much teeth_ that’s haunting him, even though Patrick didn’t really say it.

Pete puts the notebook down. He feels dumb for it, but he picks up one of Patrick’s cardigans. It’s too small for him really, so he just carries it with him as he heads back to Patrick’s bunk.

Methodically he pulls Patrick’s stuff out from under his bunk; his box of records, his circular fedora box, his heap of wiring.

The underneath of Patrick’s bunk is small and warm. Pete uses Patrick’s cardigan as a pillow and curls up on the hard floor.

With Patrick this close, he reckons he might have a chance at falling asleep. His fingers automatically find the paper in his pocket, clench tight around Patrick’s words, still just as perplexing now as when Pete first read them.

 

_I must confess_

_I'm in love with my own sins_

 

 

* * *

 

Patrick is wearing yellow again; a suit, top-hat, _ruffles_. It’s so ridiculously not-Patrick that Pete laughs. Andy turns to frown at him. Joe mutters something about teeth. Pete is perplexed at the reaction, until he looks up and sees the people who were sprinting towards the carousel have faltered. They’re staring at him.

Patrick jabs him in the side, hisses, “we’re performing” in his ear.

Pete finds himself frowning. Performing doesn’t equate to no smiling. Performing and smiling kind of go hand in hand. The people step closer, cautious, still staring at him.

Joe steps forward, jamming out as he does. He grins at them, reaches out his hand, pulls them in.

Pete stares at Joe and thinks _what?_ Why is Joe allowed to smile? Why isn’t Pete?

Spitefully, he barely even plays. He stands listlessly and glares at Joe and Andy when they eye him weirdly.

Patrick steps close, weaves his fingers through Pete’s hair, looks him in the eyes. Pete stares back helplessly, arching under the stare, making a pitiful noise.

The side of Patrick’s mouth twitches up into a smile. He presses a soft kiss to Pete’s nose, even as Pete tries to make it his mouth.

“Too much teeth, Sandman,” Patrick reminds him, looking sad. No, not sad. Hollow.

Pete thinks about Andy and Joe, arches closer, tries to fit their mouths together. He can _fix it_. Benzedrine jerks away.

“Too much teeth,” he hisses angrily, “you know that.”

Pete falls small under his furious gaze, hunches into himself.

Benzedrine lets him go, mutters, “sorry,” like he has to say it and goes back to his microphone.

Pete closes his eyes. When he opens them the precursor tears are gone and he sees Shoe bent over Donnie, mouths fused together. He doesn’t understand and it’s not fair. He catches Benzedrine’s eye because he thinks he might have the answer but he just sighs and looks away, keeps singing.

 _Too much teeth,_ he thinks and maybe he understands. Maybe it’s completely understandable why-why-why the world won't revolve around him. He’s too much or not enough, or something that makes Benzedrine pull away and the wannabes falter.

He’s not sure what exactly it is, but there’s something they don’t like about him.

 _Too much teeth_ , he thinks and wonders what it actually means.

 

* * *

Patrick’s cursing colourfully when Pete wakes up. He’s hopping on one foot, the other one above the cut off point of Pete’s vision, where the bunk gets in the way.

Pete shifts his head to see better. Patrick’s holding his knee almost to his chest, glaring at the stuff cluttering the corridor.

“Sorry,” Pete says preemptively.

“Pete what the fuck?” Patrick demands, “why do you do this?”

Pete shrugs, pulls himself out from under the bed so he can actually sit up. “You said I couldn’t share your bunk.”

Patrick’s face flashes through a myriad of emotions; pain, embarrassment, guilt, pain again. Finally he sucks in a breath and says, very very tightly, “so you decided to sleep _under_ it?”

Pete gets up, so he feels a little less like a scolded child. “I can’t sleep anywhere else,” he defends.

“You can’t- you can’t sleep anywhere but _under my bed?_ ”

“Well-” Pete tries, but Patrick’s far from finished.

“You slept just fine yesterday,” he says.

Pete’s shoulders droop. He feels like he’s revealing too much, but Patrick already knows, he already knows and it can’t get much worse. “I can’t sleep without you,” he mutters.

Patrick falters. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Pete sighs, “oh.”

“But we don’t sleep together very much,” Patrick murmurs and flushes bright red, “I mean-”

“I don’t sleep very much,” Pete interjects and maybe if it were a different day he would make a joke out of Patrick saying they sleep together, but he’s not feeling it today. He’s feeling dejected and all he can think about is Patrick, dressed in yellow, getting angry at him for trying to fix the hollow feeling. “If at all.”

Patrick eyes him speculatively, probably putting together the mornings where Pete comes in from outside, shivering and wide-eyed and almost manic from tiredness. “I thought you were a morning person,” he offers mildly.

Pete can’t even laugh. He just watches Patrick shuffle. It’s still dark, can’t have been more than three hours since he fell asleep and he’s still bone tired.

“Please,” he finally says, voice dry and raspy, “please can I sleep in your bunk.”

Patrick nods automatically and Pete feels relieved. He also feels sick to the stomach because Patrick’s forcing himself to accommodate Pete, even after finding out about Pete’s feelings. The two emotions war with his conscience, but eventually relief wins out because he’s tired all the time and possibly in love with Patrick and he can’t make himself not be pleased.

He pulls Patrick with him into the small bunk space, Patrick stumbling and saying, “now?” like it’s the worst thing in the world.

Pete ignores him, just lays himself down in the shadowy space, pulls Patrick to lie with him. Patrick remains stiff and cautious and eventually Pete gets sick of the distance and pulls them together.

Patrick looks panicked ( _too much teeth)_ for a second and then says, “I won’t touch you,” like some kind of promise, “not like that. Not again.”

Pete swallows down the hurt and rejection. He doesn’t know why Patrick needs to rub salt into his wounds, he didn’t think Patrick was the kind of guy who would. “I don’t want you to,” Pete hisses.

Patrick stills. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “I know. Sorry.”

Pete buries his nose in the hollow of Patrick’s throat, closes his eyes and waits impatiently for sleep.

 

* * *

Benzedrine isn’t there this time. Neither are Shoe or Donnie. Pete comes to all alone and thinks _what?_ until it’s abundantly clear why they aren’t around. It’s because nothing is around. There’s no carousel, no wannabes, no ditch.

Instead there’s a shadowy warehouse, piled with boxes and ropes and machinery. There’s a blender full of some odd red mixture and Pete finds it automatically disgusting and has no idea why.

“Pete,” someone calls and Pete startles. He thought he was alone. Patrick appears from the shadows though, wearing a dinky hat and looking concerned. “You need to drink that.”

Pete looks from Patrick to the blender to Patrick and pulls a stupid face. He doesn’t want to drink it at all, not one bit.

“No thanks,” he mutters.

Patrick’s face falls into something cold, something hollow. “Pete,” he says carefully, “you have to.”

Pete looks at the mixture, feels his stomach heave. Pete looks at Patrick, feels it settle, feels a weird pressure against his bottom lip like his teeth are too long, feels _hungry_.

He doesn’t understand the feeling, but it feels a little familiar. A little hollow.

Movement catches his attention. In the deep shadows, pressed against the far wall, where Pete shouldn’t even be able to see, Joe and Andy are kissing. Undoubtedly they feel the hollow here too and are trying to fix it just like they were in the ditch.

Pete turns back to Patrick. The hollow is deep now, aching in his bones. He’s missing something and he’s pretty sure it’s Patrick. If he buries himself in Patrick’s arms, fits their mouths together, nuzzles his cheek, rips the flesh from his throat and laps up the blood, he knows the hollow feeling will go away.

_Wait, what?_

Patrick’s looking a little scared, like he knows what Pete was thinking. Pete’s scared himself. What the fuck was he thinking? Flesh and blood and - his stomach growls.

Patrick takes a fumbling step back, says, “Pete you have to drink,” but it’s cold, so cold, so hollow, and Pete finds himself furious.

“Why won't you let me?” he demands, moving towards Patrick faster than he thought possible. “I can fix it. I can fucking fix it Patrick. Nothing needs to be hollow. I - you - _we_ , we can fix it.”

Patrick swallows hard, eyes huge. “Pete,” he squeaks, “teeth.”

Pete falters, steps back. _Too much teeth._ Too much, not enough, whatever. Patrick would rather the hollow than Pete.

“Right,” Pete says icily, “too much teeth. I’ve got it.”

 

* * *

He wakes up and Patrick’s wrapped around him again. He’s wearing clothes this time, but that doesn’t really subtract from the hard press of his erection against Pete’s thigh.

Pete stares at the ceiling, thinks about praying for the strength to untangle himself from Patrick but ultimately doesn’t. He doesn’t need to pray, all he needs to think is _too much teeth_ and the tempting press of Patrick against him becomes the depressing realisation that Patrick will never actually want him.

Pete sighs, thinks _fuck it_ and turns into Patrick’s chest, burrows himself within Patrick’s arms. If this is all the affection he can get, he’ll take it.

Patrick snuffles into his hair, presses himself closer and it’s adorable, until he rolls his hips forward like last time. Then it’s too hot and Pete needs to get out because it’s hips against hips. He’s moaning without meaning to, pressing forward into the movement and Patrick could wake up at any second and realise Pete’s taking advantage of him.

Pete really really tries to pull away. Really really. But Patrick clutches him tighter whenever he moves, rolls his hips harder, pants against Pete’s neck, and it’s hard. It’s hard and Pete’s hard and Patrick’s hard and they’re pressed together, dick to dick - well, dick to skinny jeans to pajamas to dick, but still.

He can’t help it, the mindless jerk of his hips against Patrick’s. They rock together, and Patrick’s hands go from curling around Pete to finding his wrists, holding them hard enough to bruise.

Pete writhes and shakes and arches into the friction and the dull pain. He doesn’t think this can get much hotter, maybe if Patrick were naked - but that’s a whole other ball game, until Patrick swears under his breath, somehow still asleep, and pulls Pete’s wrists hard behind his back.

Pete chokes on his own spit and comes, staring wide-eyed and shocked because _Patrick’s kinky? What the fuck?_

Patrick takes this moment to wake up. His eyes shoot open, hips stuttering as his own orgasm takes over. His mouth falls open, an almost inaudible noise passing his lips, and then snaps closed.

One moment he looks sated and spent and the next he looks horrified.

“Pete?” he chokes out. “Oh my god, Pete, I didn’t mean to. I’m so sorry. I - fuck I usually have more control than this.”

Pete thinks he should be the one apologising. He definitely just took advantage of Patrick.

“Sorry,” he whispers. Rejection isn’t a new feeling, but it still hits like it’s the first time. He thinks he might cry and tries to pull away, doesn’t want Patrick to see. His wrists are still held painfully tight within Patrick’s and he jerks them a little, to remind Patrick they’re there. “Uh- can you…”

“Fuck. Shit, sorry,” Patrick says, releasing his wrists.

Pete brings them up to his chest, rubs at the sore spots like he usually does after he’s been held down. He’s savoring the feeling, realising it might freak Patrick out moments too late.

Patrick’s staring at his wrists, looking distressed and unhappy. “I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.

Pete shakes his head, draws his wrists from Patrick’s gaze. “I know,” he says, “don’t worry. It’s fine.” _I know you don’t want me._

He slips out of Patrick’s bunk, feeling sticky and gross and like he just molested his best friend ‘cause he can’t keep his fucking feelings in check.

The note’s still in his pocket;

 

_I must confess_

_I'm in love with my own sins_

 

He thinks he understands, doing something wrong and hating yourself for it but still loving the feeling. He molested Patrick and it was totally wrong and he hates himself for it, hates what he’s become, but the feeling of Patrick against him, his mouth on Pete’s skin and the hard press of their cocks together; fuck, he loves it.

He doesn’t understand why it was Patrick who wrote it and not him. Patrick doesn’t even know what it’s like to sin.

 

* * *

 

Pete holds out three days before he finds himself approaching Patrick’s bunk again. He’s tired. He wants to sleep. He wants to wake up beside Patrick, clinging and warm, but that desire is buried under a layer of guilt.

Patrick takes one look at him and shakes his head. “Pete, no. You know we can’t.”

Pete tries not to look too defeated. He hitches his blanket higher in his arms and turns away. Goes back to his own bunk.

He won't get any sleep, but he understands. Patrick won’t allow Pete in his bunk, not if he could wake up with Pete all over him, not when Pete has _too much teeth._

 

It’s three when Pete’s phone battery runs out and he has to go hunting for his power cord. He thinks it’s probably in the living area. He hopes it is, because if it isn’t it’s probably on Andy and Joe’s bus.

The living area is dark and deserted, still piled with Andy’s drums, still covered in Patrick’s laundry.

The cardigan Pete picked up nights ago is probably still under Patrick’s bunk, pushed behind all of Patrick’s stuff. Patrick hadn’t asked him to help moving it all back. Patrick hadn’t talked to him at all until tonight. Yesterday night. Whatever.

Pete sighs, figures he should probably fetch Patrick’s cardigan from under his bunk before he starts to miss it. His power cord can wait.

There’s a lot of muffled cursing and panting, but finally Patrick’s stuff is in the middle of the shallow corridor again. Pete crawls on under, finds the cardigan and decides he doesn’t want to leave.

Patrick will be mad about all the stuff though, so Pete tetris-es most of it back in. He leaves a small space behind it all and shifts the misplaced boxes under his own bed.

He grabs his pillow, Patrick’s cardigan, his own blanket, and carefully climbs through the gap he left into the space behind the boxes. He sets the pillow down, covers it with Patrick’s cardigan and pulls the last box in the corridor back into the gap he left.

Now Patrick can’t complain about his stuff being in the corridor, and he can’t complain about Pete because Pete’s hidden entirely away behind piles of Patrick’s stuff.

Pete pulls the blanket over himself and thinks about Patrick, not two metres above him.

He thinks maybe he can sleep.

 

* * *

Benzedrine looks happy to see him. It’s only for a split second and then his impassive expression is back, but Pete sees it.

“Hey Bennie,” he croons, “miss me?”

Benzedrine rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth crooks up.

“You did,” Pete exclaims happily, “Don’t even try to hide it.” He catches Benzedrine’s fingers amongst his own, and when this doesn’t earn him a glare or an angry huff, pulls the doctor into a hug.

Benzedrine sighs, but it’s a fond sigh. “Don’t push your luck, Sandman,” he warns, warmly, fondly, _sweetly_. Pete is totally gonna push his luck.

“No kiss then?” he enquires, faux sadly.

Benzedrine groans, pushes his fingers hard into the mesh of Pete’s shirt. “Stop with that shit,” he growls, “it’s unfair.”

“Yeah,” Pete agrees, “it is unfair. Why won’t you just kiss me already?”

Benzedrine pulls away, jerkily, fast. “Stop, Sandman. Why won't you stop? You know why we can’t.”

“No,” Pete says immediately, catching Bennie by his yellow ruffles so he can’t run away, “I don’t know! I don’t fucking know, Patrick. What is it? _Too much teeth?_ What does that fucking mean? Am I too much? Not enough? What?”

Benzedrine looks startled, presses his fingers to Pete’s skin, says, “warm” and “Patrick” and “Pete” and sighs. “You’re not Sandman,” he says quietly, a realisation. “Pete, you’re perfect. You’re not too much and you’re definitely enough. You’re just right. Look at me, I’m practically fucking goldilocks. I know what right feels like and you’re it.”

Pete blinks, taken aback. He’d been preparing for a list of his flaws, a conversational break down of what isn’t right about Pete fucking Wentz. “But you won't kiss me,” he whispers, because if he’s just right, then _why?_

Patrick smiles sadly. “Sandman has too much teeth.”

“For fucks sake. What does that mean?”

“It means you have too much teeth, you idiot. You always take things so abstractly. It’s not abstract. It’s not a metaphor. You have _too much teeth_.”

“What?” Pete asks dumbly, ‘cause how can this be anything but a metaphor?

Benzedrine sighs, takes Pete’s hand and leads him towards the middle of the carousel. Donnie and Shoe watch them curiously, probably because Bennie’s not playing and Bennie hardly does anything but play.

The middle pillar of the carousel is mirrored. Benzedrine stands him in front of it, points and says, “see?”

Pete peers into the dappled mirror, sees himself and thinks _oh_ . _Oh_ , maybe all those times Benzedrine said he had too much teeth weren’t metaphors about him being too much or not enough. Maybe he said them because Pete has _too much teeth, holy fuck._

His mouth is huge, lips a dark, ominous black. He has too much teeth. Not too many, but too much. Each tooth is too big, too much.

“Holy crap,” Pete says, “no wonder you don’t want to kiss me.”

Benzedrine makes a pained noise. “I do want to kiss you. I want to do nothing but kiss you, well Sandman, whatever. It’s not about your teeth, not really. If I kiss you, I die.”

“ _What!?_ ”

“Sandman puts people to sleep. It’s what he does. The closer you get, the sleepier you are. He touches you, you fall asleep. He kisses you, you don’t wake up. It’s too much. I can resist most of it but... we don't know. We don't know if it would kill me and... would _you_  test it? With that kind of risk.”

Pete feels cold. “No," he answers immediately because he would never risk Patrick. Not for anything.

"Yeah," Bennie sighs.

"So, I’m cursed then? I can never kiss anyone?”

Benzedrine smiles that small sad smile. “ _You_ can. Sandman can’t. You aren’t the same people. Sandman’s a reflection. We’re all reflections. Like looking into a puddle. We’re you, but distorted. Sandman isn’t you, Pete. You don’t have too much teeth.”

 

 

* * *

Pete wakes up so fiercely, he bangs his head on the underside of Patrick’s bunk.

There’s an answering bang from above him, cursing and then a thud as Patrick drops onto the floor.

“What the?” he asks, pulling aside the boxes and revealing Pete. “Pete, what the fuck?”

Pete pulls himself out from under the bunk, crawls over the piles of wires, latches onto Patrick’s pajamas. “Patrick,” he says breathlessly, “‘trick. Do you think I have too much teeth?”

Patrick looks confused and Pete can suddenly only think about how Patrick never said Pete had too much teeth. Patrick never said anything like it. Benzedrine did and Pete stupidly applied it to his Patrick thinking they were the same. Patrick never thought it at all.

“What?” Patrick asks.

“Am I too much? Not enough?”

“ _What?”_

“Fucking hell. Patrick, do you _like_ me?”

Patrick flushes red, mouth dropping open. “I - uh - I think the sexual assault speaks for itself.”

Pete pauses, “hold up. What? Sexual assault?”

“You know,” Patrick hisses, looking angry and guilty and ashamed, “when I molested you.”

“When?” Pete asks automatically, “when you were _asleep? You were asleep, dude!”_

Patrick folds his arms across his chest. “That doesn’t make it okay. You were telling me to stop and, fuck, I didn’t want to Pete. I - I wanted to hold you down and force you. That’s not okay. And, your wrists. They’re still bruised Pete… fuck.”

 

_I’m in love with my own sins_

 

“You were asleep,” Pete repeats, “if anything, I molested you.”

“What? _You_ told me to stop!”

“Well yeah,” Pete says, “I thought you didn’t like me. I thought I had too much teeth and how could you? I told you to stop because I didn’t want you to regret it.”

Patrick pauses, looks a little like someone just rearranged his idea of the world. “You - you wanted to?”

“Patrick,” Pete sighs, “I’m in love with you. Of course I wanted to.”

Patrick flounders, eyes darting from his face to the front of the bus, like someone will walk in and save him, to the floor, to Pete’s wrists.

“I held you there Pete, so hard your wrists are bruised. You can’t tell me you wanted that.”

“Of course I wanted that!” Pete yells, “have you met me? I’m fucking kinky, Patrick. I get turned on when people punch me in the face. I - fuck, I _came_ when you pinned my wrists behind me.”

“You came?” Patrick asks, startled.

“Yeah.”

“You wanted that? Really? You want me?”

“Yes really. God, I want you. Can we fast forward to the kissing already?”

Patrick bites his lip and gives him a dubious look. “I guess…” he mutters, which is all the invitation Pete needs to pounce on him.

Somehow, despite knowing Pete, Patrick isn’t expecting to suddenly have an armful of him. He yelps, which is somewhat comical, until he falls over a box of his stuff and they both go sprawling among the scattered belongings.

Patrick winces, says, “Jesus _Christ, Pete_.”

A little nagging part of Pete’s brain feels bad and whispers a little about being too much. If Patrick wanted him before, he’s certainly changed his mind now.

Patrick, watching him, frowns. His eyebrows furrow and he untangles his hand from a pile of cords to wrap it around Pete’s hip instead. He looks concerned and Pete wonders what exactly was showing in his expression to get Patrick to react this way.

“I’m fine,” Pete mumbles.

Patrick nods slightly, says, “okay,” like he really honestly believes Pete, and tilts his head up to slide their lips together.

Pete presses desperately into the warm pressure of the kiss, licks his way into Patrick’s mouth and touches tongue to teeth. It’s a little too enthusiastic of him, and Patrick’s probably freaking out, but when Pete leans back to check and _breathe,_ Patrick just smiles this huge giddy smile that tells him he doesn’t have too much teeth and everything is just right.

Pete darts in quick to kiss him again, not because he fears Patrick will change his mind or because he feels hollow without it, but because he wants to and, for once, he can.

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudos and comment and tell me what you think. This is a weird way of writing for me, and I'd love to hear what you thought of it. 
> 
> This work was inspired by the Music Video for America's Suitehearts, particularly the characterisation of Mr Sandman. It was also inspired by (and started entirely because of) the interview where Pete talks about how Patrick is brutal af if Pete's lyrics aren't any good.


End file.
